Grateful is Dead
It seems that it is and frankly, I say, good riddance to it.
I say this not because I’m ungrateful. Heaven forbid! I remember a time when even if you’d received the gift in person, and actually said the words “Thank you very much” directly into the face of whoever it was gifting you whatever it was, it still wasn’t enough. No, this person would still be expecting a hand written note on a little specially bought card to be plopping through their letter box within a certain interval. Too long an interval would be almost as bad as no card at all. Don’t even think you’ll get away with a phone call either- it’s a card or nothing- these people need cold hard evidence of gratitude. Mantlepiece dwelling evidence.
Dear Great Auntie Joan(for it is always to elderly aunts and grandmas that you must write these things)
Thanks for the dreadfully ill-fitting scratchy nylon cardigan and monkey piss aftershave that you gave me this Christmas. Despite only being ten and not needing any aftershave as yet, I am sure that I can find some use for it, perhaps as fuel for a Molotov cocktail, should the situation warrant it. These are uncertain times we live in, so I’m sure it will come in handy.
See you the same time next year for the same ritual until you finally peg it,
Your loving grand-nephew twice removed or whatever the hell I am to you; no-one ever really sat me down to explain,
Barry
Thank you letters- a social minefield if ever there was one. You forget to send one to the wrong person and bang, that’s it- you are dead to them. And I’m not just talking post Christmas thank you notes. There are two other situations in life where the thank you note can cause you serious social damage should you not attack it like a military campaign.
These events are: Birth, and Marriage.
Personally when I give a gift that’s it for me. Had a baby? There’s something nice for him/her. The End. Getting married? Thanks for the invite to the wedding, here’s a little something to show I appreciate the invite and to help you set up house (or a better equipped one than the one you’ve both been living in together for years anyway). Do I give a stuff if I get a card? It wouldn’t even cross my mind to be bothered about such a thing. If you’re offering a card, I’ll take it. If you’re not, then nae bother, because I wouldn’t notice.
Thank you card sulks belong in the world of the petty. Yes, send them if you must, I have sent many in my time as well. Meeester and I sat and opened all our wedding presents like one of those British Expeditionary Force meetings where ladies called Penelope in uniform move things about on a big map with long sticks and take orders from men with big curly moustaches called Ginger. Meeester (he was Ginger) did the opening, I (Penelope) did the recording of what it was and who it was from, so that I could then sit for an entire day after our honeymoon and get the blasted cards out to the right people. Heaven forbid you thank the wrong person for the wrong gift. Again, for certain people this faux pas is worse than no card at all.
I have always felt this way about thank you letters and cards. Many people will disagree with my feelings and think me a slatternly ungrateful cow, but I’m not. I’d just rather say thanks in person. And I don’t make my kids write them either. A gift should not engender an obligation.
Another thing strikes me. No-one ever expects a bloke to write a thank you card. Think about it- did you ever see your husband, brother or father sit down and write a letter of thanks. Have you ever received a letter of thanks from an uncle or grandfather? No, you have not. In the same way women are expected to endure the yearly trauma of writing a bazillion Christmas cards to people they never see, they are also expected to take time out of probably the most hectic times in their lives, the month after childbirth, to write thank yous to all the people who have given the baby a gift. I mention this because apparently I once forgot to send one of these. It was nearly twelve years ago when my son was born. For years I could never figure out why this person doesn’t like me. What had I done to offend? Turns out it’s because she gave my then baby a gift and never got a thank you card by return of post. I do not remember this. Apparently twelve years on, she still does.
So where are you in this; foaming at the mouth if seven days go past and no card appears and writing to the Daily Mail about the kids of today, or a Veruca Salt like I apparently am?
Festive Frenzy
First of all, let’s just put the obvious invested interests aside.
Ok, then now I’ll begin.
Tonight in the cold and wintery, but pleasingly silvery town of Aberdeen there is an event so flippin’ Christmassy that it even Santa Claus himself may have to look at his public image and consider a Madonna-like reinvention.
It is The Lorelei Festive Frenzy.
First, the details for any of my readers living in the Grey Toon who could conceivably liven up their night tonight by coming along..
Venue: The Lemon Tree (newly reopened, better than ever-except the Halcyon Days when I worked there, and still the best venue in Aberdeen)
Date: Tonight, Today, Heute, Este Noche, Th’day, 20th December, Five More Sleeps.
Time: Support acts Amy Sawyers, Eric Euan, The Family Simpson and St Winifred’s School Choir start at 9pm (OK I’m lying about the St Winifred’s School Choir- they aren’t there. Shame, though.)
Lorelei on stage about 11pm.
Now a bit of an incentive- the Lorelei are great, fast, loud, danceable, funny, and have got some extra special Christmas treats up their big sleevies and their Christmas gigs are legendary. This year’s set promises to include two bagpipers, party games, a Mariah Carey cover that would make the X Factor judges wet their pants, costume changes and actual Santa.
So if you can make it,do. If you can’t and still want some of their Christmas fairy dust wherever you are in the world then listen to their session on Original 106Fm’s Sunday Showcase from last week, where you can giggle at their frenzied attack on Mariah’s “All I want for Christmas is Hugh”. Whoever Hugh is- why’s he so popular, that’s what I want to know?
The Lorelei’s last EP, Home is also available on itunes, chums. Much better than a jumper or a pair of socks for Christmas, I’d say.
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A Jason Orange in my Stocking
Bassey:
Another year, another barrage of frickin’ Christmas fantasy punting commercials. This year we’ve got the Markies models having a lovely Christmas with the boys of Take That in a inconceivably large chocolate box home covered in mythical snow.
All your clichés are there:
> Lingerie
> Harmony
> Fun
> Goodwill
> Jolly japes and
> Nobody having to sleep on a camp bed with a jagged spoke piercing their side through the canvas.
This is about as far removed from actual Christmas as you can conceivably get, yet it is the Christmas we strive for. Admittedly maybe without the members of Take That. The presence of Gary Barlow would just make me uneasy.
It’s just another example of the Christmas Lie.
The ad is missing so many things that make a UK Christmas what it really is. Here’s a list I made, but feel free to add your own.
1. Elderly people who hate every aspect of everything that’s about to happen in the festive 24 period. Except the Christmas Eastenders edition which must be watched in silence whilst devouring a full size packet of Rennies and a box of Orange Matchmakers.
2. Uncles who drink everything in sight, including emptying out the innards of chocolate liqueurs, discarding the choco carcasses for the dog to hoover up and are then found slumped in the garden looking like Jack Nicolson in the final scene of The Shining, after they’ve been noticed as missing after three hours.
3. A big ol’ family argument, based on nothing really, but fuelled by stress, booze and Trivial Pursuit.
4. At least one person who you haven’t seen since Christmas day last year. Possibly a widowed friend of your parents who keeps on remarking how nice everything is, even in the midst of a kitchen meltdown after your Dad has realised he didn’t switch on the oven three hours ago, as instructed.
5. Drunk Uncle dressing up as Santa and traumatising the kids.
6. Someone with the Norovirus stomach bug.
7. A war between those who want crappy Chrissy telly on versus those who want party games.
8. Someone giving the dog a whiskey.
9. A snoring Dad or Grandad who has crashed and burned by 5pm and into whose open mouth the kids will try and pitch rolled up Quality Street papers from a distance for points.
10. Great Grandad waking up in the middle of the night, forgetting where he was and being caught just about to have a wee in the airing cupboard.
So what else is missing?
(The ad is here if you need to see it again. Vomit bag not supplied. The Misssives takes no responsibility for any urges to firebomb Marks and Spencers after viewing.)
The Christmas Party Survival Guide
My new work’s Christmas Party is on Friday. It is an overnight stay at a country estate. We arrive at 10.30 in the morning and depart the next day.
Sweet Child o’ Mine….I am terrified.
Shaking in my sho-boots as I am, I am not going to anticipate anything about it. Instead I am going to give you Misssy’s rules for work Christmas party survival.
1. Beware of the free bar.
This is a poison chalice of the highest order.
I once saw my old company handyman passed out drunk on a couch in the reception area. As the night went on, people essentially vandalised the poor guy. By the time he came round he had a cock drawn on his cheek leading to his mouth, his shirt was off and he was sporting marker pen boobs. In addition, someone had managed to pull a silver sequined G-string over his trousers. Photos were, of course, taken.
Keep that picture in your mind as you consider your response to “Flaming Sambucas all round, anyone?!!!”
Please don’t let this be you
2. Do not get stuck next to management in the seating arrangements
Sometimes this is hard. My managing director for six years running would make sure that in the table layout my name tag was next to his. One year I snuck in and swapped it, but he insisted it was swapped back. He was a perv, though and maybe not all bosses are like that.
Perv or no, and assuming you have a choice, there is one good reason you should avoid them; they are not your friends. No amount of alcohol is enough to switch off the power balance switch that exists between the two of you. Don’t delude yourself it’s even worth trying. Also, they only want to talk about work. And you want to be over with your mates talking utter crap (and working out what to do to the passed-out janny this year), don’t you?
3. Do not go onto a club afterwards.
Given that most Christmas parties start at lunchtime, you really need to be home and out of harm’s way by late evening. Anything more is guaranteed messiness. And even if you are not the one being messy, then you will witness sights you cannot erase from your brain.
Worst of all will be being forced to dance with middle aged guys with Santa ties on, who haven’t been near any club recently that doesn’t have the word “golf “in front of it.
4.Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, cop off with anyone you work with.
I cannot stress this enough.
Other than the obvious “don’t-get-your-meat-where-you-get-your-bread” reason, there are three particular extra reasons.
Firstly, EVERYONE will know about it instantly. I was once called over by a work mate to witness a happening of this sort through the board room window. Before table-top coitus was even interuptusused, the whole company knew.
To be honest the couple were bloody lucky that drink perhaps makes things a little quicker, shall we say, as one of the cameramen I worked with was running to get the camera from upstairs. Lucky for them, he was too late to catch the exclusive.
Secondly, even if the affection was genuine at the time, you’ve got at least a week of no-work between the “happening” and going back to work guaranteeing extreme awkwardness that first day back. And you can bet the whole work is beaking-in to watch that situation go down.
Thirdly, you don’t want to ruin your Christmas with horrid flashbacks and ruminations of whether you should hand in your notice along with the drunken janitor.
Your Chrimbo cop off won’t look like this….( I Googled some terrible things to find a pic of what it would look like,
but I’ll spare you)
5. The Special Fifth Survival Rule
This can always be used but you need to be organised. It is this; have an excuse ready in September as to why you can’t make the Christmas Party at all and avoid it altogether.
Make sure to save appointments up for just this occasion. For example, you could book the operation to get your varicose veins done that very week. It’ll be more enjoyable certainly, than being felt up by Barry from computing on the dancefloor.
Other than that, my dears, have a good one and let’s all make it through unscathed.
The Misssy M Misssives Present: Your Cut Out and Keep Christmas Card Disclaimer
Penguins with clothes on:
Here’s my Christmas gift to you all. Cut it out and brandish at people or email to your friends and get yourself out of pre-Christmas Hell. Additions to the list welcome.
Dear Friend,
This year I will not be sending out Christmas cards. To help you understand why, I have compiled a list of possible reasons and I urge you to simply choose your favourite and go with it. Know that the non-receipt of a card is no indication of any diminishing of my love for you, and have a lovely Christmas.
Possible reasons that you won’t be getting a Christmas card from me this year:
1. I am on holiday in place where writing a Christmas card would get me imprisoned. Not worth the risk.
2. The thought of sitting down for an entire night writing the names of me and my family 150 times over on little bits of card may send me over the edge. So I won’t be doing it for my own sanity.
3. I am worried about the amount of paper used to facilitate this meaningless exercise. We need trees for other, more useful stuff, like breathing.
4. I had a traumatic paper cut experience last year with a Christmas card and although my therapist suggests that one day that I will have to write a card to get over it, I’m really only at the stage where I can calmly handle a pen without breaking out in a nervous rash.
5. I am trapped under something incredibly heavy and cannot get out from under it to write my Christmas cards.
6. I forgot.
7. I am converting to Islam. Infidels with your phoney Christmas cards!
8. No matter how many I send I will always forget to send somebody one and then I’ll get one from them and the guilt will ruin my Christmas.
9. Christmas cards make my house messy. They make your house messy. I’m doing your home décor a favour.
10. Christmas cards are not feng shui.
11. Postmen are over worked as it is. Give those lads a break.
12. I haven’t seen a lot of you in many years. I’d rather have an email from you telling me how life is going rather than simply read your name on a Christmas card each year. Or a visit, how about a visit instead of a card?
13. Christmas cards are a fire hazard. Have you any idea how many house fires are caused by Christmas cards coming into contact with ignition sources? I’m saving your life here!
14. Christmas is hectic enough wiothout this added hassle. Why don’t you join me and not write them too. Then we can get on with enjoying the run up to Christmas rather than having this yearly administrative nightmare to endure.
15. Men don’t write Christmas cards. Fact. It’s always left to the woman. I am making a feminist statement. Join me sisters!
16. The dog ate my Christmas cards.
17. My love for you cannot be adequately conveyed on a Christmas card, so why try?
18. Jesus didn’t like Christmas cards. Actual historical fact.
19. Penguins don’t wear Santa hats. Let’s quosh the stereotype before they get angry and raise a revolutionary army against us.
20. I am allergic to the sticky gum on Christmas card envelopes and may die if I lick it. Medical exemption. Have note from my Mum.
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…
I know it’s early to be thinking about Christmas but I am. I have to. This year it’s the turn of the Flying Martinis to play host for Meeester’s ever growing side of the family on Christmas Day.
I’ve only ever cooked Christmas dinner once and I can’t really remember a damn thing about how it turned out, I was that nervous. It may have been okay; no-one died.
But it’s a fraught affair isn’t it, this Christmas lark? And this year I am booking us into the local hotel for lunch to ease the general fraughtness and re-introduce some Christmas spirit back into the proceedings by way of paying other folk to clear up our mess.
So, since Christmas is on my mind, I am going to treat you to a top ten list of:
Flying Martini Fraught Christmas Moments.
- It’s Boxing Day at Meeester’s brother’s house. His now long-gone girlfriend (now replaced by an infinitely better model) shrieks loudly and manically in the kitchen in earshot of assembled family members, “If they think they are getting a fried breakfast they can think again. They’re like a swarm of locusts!!!” Car ignitions are put into action a mere ten minutes later.
- Snowed in at Misssy’s parents’ house. It’s Meeester’s first Christmas as a married man, and his first at the new in-laws. The assembled family decide to go round the table and ask each family member to sing their party piece. Meeester seals his reputation with my aghast aging grandparents when he launches into, “The Hairs on her Dickie Di-Do”. Cue Christmas tumbleweed. Snow plough ignitions are put into action minutes later.
C’mon everybody, you know the words!
“The hairs on her dickie di do
Go down to her knees!
One White One,
One Black One,
One with a bit of shite on,
And one with a fairy light on
To show you the way!”
Very festive, I think you’ll agree.
- Back in Meeester’s brother’s house, other brother in law opens 20 year-old vintage bottle of wine, uninvited from wine rack. Tears are shed privately. People are not invited back.
- Twin sister in law sits down triumphantly after serving sumptuous first ever Chrissie dinner. At that very same second a marital barney erupts between another couple. Tears are shed. Car ignitions are in action before party games can even begin.
- Misssy’s drunken and now deceased grandfather wanders disorientatedly downstairs in full view of living room full of revelers, completely naked. Misssy’s brother describes his little bottom as “You know how a balloon goes soft and wrinkly after a few days…like that”
- My darling mother in law (no, really she is darling) and her new husband dress up as snowmen in white chemical protection suits and silver wigs and perform “Frosty the Snowman” for the kids. This was three years ago. The kids have only just felt calm enough to approach them again. Scary. Evil clown scary. We’ve got it on video but it would be like showing you that video tape on the film, “The Ring”.
- My dad fashions a penis out of the plasticine used in the game “Cranium” and my elderly Gran asks him what it is. My mother immediately sends him to bed like a naughty child. And he actually goes!
- My brother in law, dressed as Santa, is violently ill on my parents’ lawn after liberating the contents of a whisky bottle. Grass doesn’t grow on a 5 inch patch for over two years.
- The same brother in law that drank the vintage wine tips the two-hours-in-the-making raspberry coulis for desert down the sink whilst washing up the main course plates. Misssy stifles tears.
- There’s a power cut on Christmas Day at Aunt and Uncle’s house, and the turkey has to be cooked on the barbecue in the snowbound garden. That bit was fun. Entertaining the telly-less grandparents is less so; an impossible task. Uncle reaches in desperation for the guitar to play “House of the Rising Sun” (his only song) as the lights come back on and we are all saved.
